The Love Killings (22 page)

CHAPTER 51

Matt sensed movement through the windshield and peeked over the dashboard. He was parked on Mount Vernon Street, halfway up the block from Kate Brown’s townhouse on the corner. He had spent most of the night here. He would have preferred to confront her sooner, but when he arrived he saw a Lincoln out front with a driver behind the wheel.

The car was still there, and so was the driver. Whoever was inside Brown’s place had stayed over last night.

Matt watched the front door open. He could see Kate in that robe of hers. He could see her kissing someone. When the man turned and walked down the steps, Matt got a good look at his face.

It was the assistant US attorney, Ken Doyle.

His driver got out of the car and opened the rear door, saying something amusing to Doyle as he climbed in the backseat. In spite of the distance, Matt could see the pistol on the driver’s belt and guessed that he was doubling up as a driver and a bodyguard.

Matt waited for the Lincoln to make a left on Twenty-Third Street and vanish around the corner. Then he climbed out of his Crown Vic, bolted down the street, and gave Brown’s front door three light taps like he might be Doyle and he’d forgotten something.

It worked. Brown popped open the door with a bright grin on her face. A bright grin that went dark and nose-dived the minute she realized who her visitor was. Matt pushed his way inside, his energy and strength all dialed up. He heard her scream, but ignored it.

He looked at her open robe and tangled hair. He looked at the anger in her eyes, all the venom. He wondered if she could see the same thing on his face—the same thing, times ten or twenty.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Kate. I know all about it. I know about the bugs and cameras in the apartment you put me in. And now,” he said, tossing it over. “And now I know about this.”

She shook her head and took a step back. “It’s not what you think it is, Jones.”

He gazed at her body and the open robe. “It’s exactly what I think it is. It’s even worse than I think it is. You’ve been doing him all along.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course, it’s true. You’ve been fucking him since the beginning. Whose idea was it for you to fuck me? For you to spy on me? That was your job, right? Stay close and keep an eye on me?”

She didn’t say anything, but took another step back. Matt noticed a pistol on the table beside the fireplace.

“Whose idea was it, Kate? Is he paying you? Did he promise you a promotion? You’re his slut, right? His man toy? His fucking FBI whore?”

Her face had turned blue, her body trembling like water in an angry pot that’s just reached a boil.

“You’re the one who doesn’t get it, Jones. You’re the one who’s being played right now.”

He shook his head at her. She seemed so foolish.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“You think you’re so damn smart. Doyle has it all over you, Jones. He knows something about you that even you don’t know.”

“I don’t know a lot of things, Kate.”

“He knows something about you that’s personal.”

The venom was still showing on her face, the nervous gleam in her eyes hot like fire. Matt shrugged, letting her play her game and thinking about his new, ever-changing reality. The idea that his life was repeating itself as if some supreme being was pulling all the strings and laughing at him as he struggled to carry on.

“Okay, Kate. Okay, I give up. What’s Doyle know that I don’t know?”

She paused a moment. She was measuring him. She seemed delighted with herself.

“The Department of Justice asked the FBI in LA to run a sample of Dr. Baylor’s DNA against every employee in Los Angeles County. They got a hit, Jones. The day before you left LA, they got a hit.”

Matt shrugged. “Oh yeah?” he said. “Who did it match up to?”

She grinned at him again, like a devil, like a bloodsucker or ghoul. “You,” she said joyously. “Baylor’s your uncle on your mother’s side, and you’re a jackal. Doyle’s been using you since day one.”

Her words pierced his body like a switchblade and went all the way through. He didn’t move, and he didn’t say anything. The weight of his new, ever-changing reality seemed almost too heavy to carry now.

His uncle. His mother’s brother. The reason Dr. Baylor had saved his life, not once, but twice.

It was heavy, but it was clean.

Matt’s mind surfaced as Brown took another step back. He had never hit a woman before. He had never even thought about it. And as a police officer, when confronted with domestic violence, he had always done his best to comfort female victims. When he got burned six weeks ago by a woman he’d fallen in love with, when he realized the magnitude of what she had done, physical violence had never even entered his mind. Even now, as he remembered the people she’d hurt and even ruined, he had to admit that he would never describe her as being evil.

But Kate Brown was an altogether different kind of woman.

And if she had ever succeeded in reaching her pistol on the table by the fireplace, Matt would have had no problem drawing his .45 and shooting her dead.

But she never did make it to her pistol. At least Matt never saw her reach the table.

Like most people who are vicious, or even wicked like Brown, she might be worth killing, but not punching her lights out.

He never saw her reach the pistol because he turned around and walked out on her. Within minutes she had become sordid and irrelevant and so very unimportant. He needed to find Dr. Baylor now. He needed to talk to the maniac who had brutally murdered four college girls with a box cutter. The doctor who had saved his life not once but twice. His uncle. His mother’s brother. His own flesh and blood.

CHAPTER 52

Andrew heard the doorbell and cringed. Rolling over in bed, he glanced at the clock radio and sat up. It was after eleven, and he’d slept in.

He tried to clear his mind. Sleep hadn’t come very easily last night, and he kept waking up after being swept away by a nightmare that seemed more vivid than most. When he caught a whiff of his mother’s decomposing body mixed with the three Glade PlugIns, he realized the nightmare that had seemed so realistic wasn’t a nightmare at all.

He’d shot his mother and her boyfriend yesterday, and both of them were dead.

The doorbell rang again. Andrew slipped on a pair of jeans and stepped over to the window for a look down at the front porch.

It was Avery Cooper, and she seemed anxious.

He stepped back from the window and tried to think. He didn’t want her in the house. He didn’t want anyone in the house. But when she rang the doorbell a third time, she seemed determined to see him.

“I know you’re in there,” he could hear her saying. “Your car’s parked at the curb, Andrew. Now open up. It’s me. Avery.”

She started beating her fist on the door and rang the bell over and over again.

Andrew scanned the bedroom, checking for anything that might appear incriminating. At a glance, the place seemed okay. He straightened out the bed, then rushed downstairs before the doorbell rang again.

He found her on the front porch, peering through the window into the living room. He unlocked the door and opened it, squinting as the bright daylight struck his face.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“That’s a nice way to greet your girlfriend.
What are you doing here?
Instead of hey, it’s nice to see you.”

He smacked his dry lips together. “Hey, it’s nice to see you, Cooper.”

“Ha,” she said in a loud voice. “Nice try, Andrew. It’s too late now.”

He watched her storm into the house, then stop and look around. He walked in and closed the door. He was hungry and needed a bowl of cereal. Avery had an odd look on her face and appeared horrified.

“What’s that smell?” she said.

He shrugged it off. “What smell?”

“That awful smell, Andrew.”

“Oh, that,” he said, thinking on his feet. “It’s mice in the walls. The exterminator said it wouldn’t go away for a couple of weeks. I got used to it after a day or two.”

“You mean you’ve got dead mice in your walls?”

He nodded. “That’s what the exterminator said.”

Her eyes got big and wide and she laughed. “Oh my God.”

She seemed to settle down after that. Andrew was amazed by her naivety. She’d bought his off-the-wall explanation at face value, and he didn’t even have to work for it.

He led her into the kitchen and offered her a bowl of Rice Krispies, but she said she’d already had something and wasn’t hungry. Once he ate and rinsed his dishes in the sink, they headed up to his bedroom.

“Why is that door closed?” she said.

He turned and followed her eyes to his mother’s bedroom.

“It’s my mother’s,” he said in as casual a voice as he could find. “She likes to keep it closed.”

“The smell is worse up here.”

“A little bit, yeah,” he said.

“Where is she? Where’s your mom?”

“She’s out of town. She’s visiting relatives.”

Why was Cooper so curious? Why all the questions? Why the third degree? He watched her check out his room, her eyes touching everything like she owned the place.

“When’s your mom coming back?” she said.

Andrew picked up on her voice. She was up to something.

She gave him a look and repeated the question. “When’s she coming back, Andrew?”

He shrugged. “Next week, I think. Why?”

“Because I brought something,” she said excitedly.

“What?”

She had a naughty look going behind her smile. She dug a small plastic bag out of her pocket, pulled it open, and dumped two pills on the worktable. Andrew examined them for a moment.

“What are they?” he said finally.

She smiled again, then got out of her jacket and tossed it on the chair.

“Ecstasy,” she said. “Want to have some fun?”

The love drug.

Andrew had never done ecstasy before. His mother had always told him that it was the kind of high that required a friend. And whenever his mother had used the word
friend
, warning beacons went off in his head.

He turned back to Avery. He looked at those eyes of hers, nodded slowly, then watched her swallow a pill and chase it down with a sip of water from the bottle he kept by his bed. Andrew hesitated to pick up the pill, worrying that he might lose control of himself and give up his secrets. He watched Avery discover his bong and the small amount of reefer already in the bowl. When she struck his lighter, took a hit, and giggled, he grabbed the water bottle and swallowed the remaining pill. Then he added more reefer to the bowl and took his first hit of the morning.

When he turned, he found Avery on his bed with Ryan Day’s briefcase. She was skimming through the gossip reporter’s files. She was reading them. Andrew finally noticed her clothing. She was wearing a red tube top that seemed loose and stretched out and only concealed a small portion of her black bra. Her jeans were just like the jeans his mother used to wear. Skintight and riding two inches below her hips.

She giggled at him and her eyes got big. “What are these files?”

He gave her another long look. He could tell that she was already stoned out of her mind on a single hit. He wondered what would happen in a half hour or so when the ecstasy kicked in.

She crossed her legs and giggled again. “Why are you reading this crap?”

He smiled at her. Everything would be okay. He could sense it. He could tell.

“It’s my job,” he said finally.

“What job?”

He paused a moment, glancing at her cleavage. When he met her eyes, it almost felt as if he were melting.

“I’m a secret agent,” he said in a low voice.

She nodded at him. She was appraising him and seemed pleased. When she spoke, her voice reminded him of angels.

“You mean you’re a secret agent and not an international man of mystery?” she said.

“Fuck those men of mystery.”

He raised his hands and shrugged. When she started giggling again, it seemed contagious, and he tumbled onto the bed and lay down beside her.

CHAPTER 53

Matt needed to become invisible—needed to find Dr. Baylor—and as he added up everything he’d just learned from Kate Brown, the grand total staggered his mind.

He cracked open the window in the Crown Vic and lit a Marlboro. He was waiting for the light to change on Tasker Street. Once it finally turned green, he pulled forward and cruised down Sixth Street. He was touring South Philadelphia in search of a special kind of body shop. He’d spent enough time as a cop in uniform patrolling the neighborhoods south of the Santa Monica Freeway in LA to know what he wanted and why.

Snyder Avenue looked promising, and he made a right at the corner, still thinking things over, still doing the math.

The apartment he’d been given had been wired for video and sound. The woman assigned to service him had been a spy and a whore. Matt had no doubt that the Crown Vic he’d been issued came equipped with a GPS device, and perhaps even a video camera and a microphone.

They were watching, and they were listening, and it was all about survival now. Surviving this ordeal with Doyle and Rogers and the delusional Kate Brown, and absorbing the fact that a serial killer like Dr. Baylor was his own flesh and blood. That every time he’d ever spoken with the doctor, on every occasion they had ever met from the very beginning, the doctor
knew
. He knew everything about Matt, his history with his mother, his history with his father. He knew everything.

A memory surfaced. The conversation he’d had with the doctor in the Strattons’ library. Matt had asked him why, if he was singling out the greedy, he had spared his father’s life. And Baylor’s response had been quick and decisive.

I thought that the honor belonged to you, Matthew. The only thing that will give your father’s death meaning is if it comes from you, and only you.

Matt spotted the body shop five blocks west on Snyder Avenue and pulled over. The building was set in a residential neighborhood and meticulously maintained by someone with money. But what struck Matt most about the garage and storefront was the fact that the body shop didn’t have a sign.

Matt guessed that the business existed off the grid and probably didn’t even have a name.

He thought about the car he was driving and the people who might be watching. He didn’t want to linger too long, so he locked up the Crown Vic and entered the building through an open garage door.

“Hey, it’s you,” a man called out in a voice that boomed.

Matt turned and saw a man in his late thirties walking toward him from the other side of the ten-bay garage. More than a handful of mechanics and technicians looked up from their cars.

“It’s really you,” the man went on. “The cop from LA. The guy chasing that serial killer. He’s in the papers, fellas. He’s on TV.”

Matt kept his eyes on the man as he approached him. He was wearing expensive clothing, a tasteful pair of slacks and a casual dress shirt. The watch on his left wrist looked like a Rolex.

“Are you the owner of this shop?” Matt said.

The man shrugged, seemed amused, and took a moment to size him up. “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe not.”

“What’s your name?”

“Carlo Genovese,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Matt Jones.”

Matt took in the body shop, then turned back to Genovese. He noted his dark hair and brown eyes, his grooming meticulous. But it was his person, his overall confidence, that Matt was counting on.

“I need a favor, Mr. Genovese.”

“Why me? The paper says you’re FBI now.”

Everyone in the shop had stopped working and moved in behind their boss. Matt tried not to be intimidated and made a point of taking a step closer and meeting Genovese’s gaze.

“There’s something wrong with my car, Mr. Genovese. I need someone to bring it in, put it on the lifts, and take a long look.”

“How long a look are we talking about?”

Matt thought it over. “Two, maybe three hours.”

Genovese nodded like he could read Matt’s mind and still seemed amused, but didn’t say anything.

“While my car is being inspected by one of your technicians, I’ll need to rent another. A car with no history and plates that someone forgot to write down. A rental paid in cash. What you need to know is that certain people are looking for me. They may pay you a visit. They may even demonstrate some degree of enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm,” Genovese said, narrowing his brow. “Are you saying that the killer might show up in my shop?”

“No,” Matt said. “The Feds.”

Genovese hesitated for a moment, then began laughing. As it settled in, everyone in the garage joined in.

“You said your name’s Jones, right? Detective Matt Jones?”

Matt nodded.

“This is South Philadelphia, Detective Jones. The FBI doesn’t run things here. We do.”

Matt nodded again. “You think it would be possible to get my car checked out? Maybe I could give you my card, and if anyone did stop by looking for me, maybe you could give me a call on my cell and let me know.”

Genovese took a moment to think it over. “If you’re in a jam with the FBI, Detective, then this one’s on the house,” he said finally. “I can’t wait till they get here. I’ll have Rose make a fresh pot of coffee.”

Matt handed over his business card and caught Genovese’s wicked smile. He’d picked the right place—the shop with no sign, the business with no name, and an owner who called himself
maybe
.